The Xenocryst Saga
by Praxy5
Summary: After Tyger Pax, the Autobots find themselves at a major disadvantage against the much more powerful Decepticon army. With options and resources drying up around him, Optimus Prime enacts Operation Xenocryst and Crossarm is given a choice: Rust in prison, or travel to the ass-end of the galaxy to assist with an energon seeding mission on an insignificant organic world: MG2505.
1. Chapter 1: Message in a Bottle

Hi! *waves.* It's been a while since I've written anything, so I figured I'd start back with gusto.

The Xenocryst Saga is set about 57 years after the battle of Tyger Pax and is a sequel of sorts to one of my previous fics, War and Wings. If you want to avoid spoilers for the end of WaW, I would advise against reading this unless you've slogged through the former (and "Visiting Hours").

Here's the full summary:

Without the AllSpark, the Autobots find themselves at a major disadvantage against the much more powerful Decepticon army, isolated as they are in Iacon. With options and resources drying up around him, Optimus Prime enacts phase one of his contingency plan: Operation Xenocryst.

Crossarm, the disgraced former HMO of the Iacon Clinic, is given a choice: Rust in prison, or travel to a remote world at the ass-end of the galaxy to assist with an energon seeding mission. And while it seems like a no-brainer to the young jet, the journey-and its outcome-may be a lot more than he, or anyone else, bargained for.

My goal is world building through character development. There is no main antagonist here, just Cybertronians living on, and trying to make sense of, the small, organic world that is MG2505. The war is on everyone's mind, but they're not dealing with it directly. How do people cope with being isolated in an unfamiliar place, knowing that at any moment they might loose the home-world that they are trying desperately to save? How do they stay sane? How might they change? That's what I'll be exploring. If you like these types of themes, consider reading. If you want to read a fic that deals more with the direct implications of war, read War and Wings.

Methinks I've talked enough. Enjoy.

* * *

It was summer at the North Pole.

Not that Crossarm cared.

Firstly, he preferred spring. When Hadeen was low on the horizon, clouds and other atmospheric phenomena were so pretty as to be surreal. That, and the low angle of insolation really brought out the white highlights on his protoform and mesh.

Secondly, he was stuck inside, fumbling through a never-ending string of briefings in preparation for his upcoming voyage…

"So…I guess this is my last message to you."

The words evaporated in his voice box, and the young mech sighed, paused, and replayed the communication, then a third time for good measure. He couldn't help but cringe at the almost wistful tone to his voice.

 _Primus…_ he cursed and rubbed his hand across his face-plate. He was running out of time; Spec had a terrible temper and he could almost imagine her busting down the door and tearing him a new exhaust port for taking so long to compose a message to someone that was supposed to be a friend.

The young mech shook his head, deleted the old message, and tried to compose himself so that he wouldn't have to start over…again.

He touched a blue glyph on the computer's interface panel and a chime prodded his voice into activity. "Io…" There was so much that he wanted to say that he very nearly froze up just thinking about it. But then, with a sigh and a determined shake of his head, he forced a smile to his lips and began to talk. "Hey, how's it going?"

 _You sound like an idiot…_ he couldn't help but think, but he pressed on. "So…I'll be leaving Cybertron in a few solar cycles…but you probably already knew that," He chuckled, mirthlessly. "No doubt Ratchet filled you in on my situation." A sudden twinge of jealousy shot through his spark as he thought of the old medi-bot; he ignored it with effort. "My only wish was that I could have said my final goodbyes to you in person…as a free 'Bot." He paused and chuckled. "Well…somewhat free. Probation is a hell-of-a-thing…"

Before he could say anything else, an angry voice exploded across his 'com. *Where are you? Highwall's briefing is about to start.* Crossarm quickly hit the pause glyph on the recording device. While he could speak over his com without audible vocalization, he couldn't imagine what Io would read into a sizeable amount of recorded silence.

*I realize that, Spec.* He replied in what he hoped was a courteous tone. *I said I'd be there, and I will.*

A grumble of static suggested that she was about to curse him out and pull rank, so the young jet was quick to add: *This may well be the last time that I communicate with her. _Ever._ *

There was a long pause. Then a sound that may have been a sigh. *Fine. Fine. Just…hurry up; Prowl is really pushing for us to leave on schedule. And you've got a LOT of catching up to do, Grunt.*

Crossarm's lip curled at the rude nickname that Spec had given him at their first meeting. She hated the military and "Grunt" was her chosen name for anyone with a rank, regardless of what. But the _way_ she said it, with such vitriol…that irked him more than anything. *Fine,* he huffed, patience waning. *I'll be there shortly.*

His line went dead and he stared at recording device for a moment to re-collect his thoughts.

"Look…I know…." He said softly, activating the record glyph once again. "I know that what I'm about to say may sound stupid and selfish, but I've got to get it off my mantle." His spark twisted painfully in his chest. "I love you." The pain seemed to increase, as if someone were driving a spear through his spark-casing. "And when this mission is over, when I'm finally free…I'll come back for you."

He paused the recording and let his head drop into his hands.

Everything about his last statement felt wrong. Was wrong.

Io could never love him, not in the way he wanted. Her spark belonged to Ratchet, figuratively and, to his continued dismay, literally. He could easier lose a hand, a wing, and a leg, then he could separate her from Ratchet, even if she wanted to. And she certainly didn't want to.

But no matter how much he tried to purge the feeling, the thought that he loved her remained…as strong and stubborn as ever, glaring at him…taunting him. _Primus, what the hell is wrong with me…?_ He wondered. _What's the point of loving someone who can't love you back? And_ what _is the point of telling them?_

He stared at the recording device trying to figure out what he could say. He knew it couldn't be _that_ , and he knew he needed to leave, but after the umpteenth time of trying to put his thoughts into a coherent, useful, and not-altogether-creepy form, he seemed to have come full circle into thoughts best kept in the dark.

But…what should he say?

He might have spent the entire night cycling this question, but the recognition that further delays might lead Spec to legitimately write him up for insubordination caused him to reach forward to try one final time.

Unfortunately, at that moment, the door swung open with a loud clang. A yellow mech stepped into the room and looked at Crossarm as if he had been lazed by a Decepticon war ship. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't know the terminal was…"

Startled, Crossarm's hand jerked forward. The console beeped and the young jet looked up at the screen with wide, horrified optics.

The message had been sent.

His spark sunk into his trods.

He had just sent a very ill-thought-out, very personal message to Io's current address. The same, physical address, he remembered suddenly, as one Ratchet of Iacon.

He buried his head in his hands. _Well…at least the solar cycle can't get any..._

*Crossarm, get your aft down to shuttle bay forty NOW!* Spec interrupted over his private 'com, killing the thought before it could finish. Surprisingly enough, she didn't sound angry. If anything, she was nervous. *Prowl's here for some reason, and he's livid. He wants to talk to you.*

The sparkling sighed heavily. _So much for that…_ *I'll be there in a moment…*


	2. Chapter 2: Homecoming

*Crossarm?*

Crossarm's primitive sensors detected a sudden increase in temperature on the surface of his mesh, then a blast of air that seemed to jar his senses back into functionality.

A shiver traveled the length of his back-strut and his armor flared in kind, fluffing like so many feathers and settling back against his protoform in a series of soft clacks.

Slowly his optics opened.

It took a moment for his _t'vre_ to reengage, but when they did, he received quite the fright.

He was blind.

"I can't see anything!" He exclaimed so quickly that the words seemed to run together, reaching his audio-receptors as a hiss of static.

He was met with silence for several moments. Then came a curt reply. "Give it a cycle. You're experiencing what we scientists like to call 'stasis lag.' You've been asleep for a while."

"What? How long…?" He wondered, spatial and bodily awareness trying weakly to shove back a burgeoning sense of anxiety. His shoulder-caps flexed, seemingly of their own accord, his head tilted side-to-side. Like some far-off observer, he marveled at the stiffness in his servos…like he hadn't moved in decades.

"Fifty-seven point four, stellar cycles," was the straight-forward reply, and Crossarm's spark surged a second time.

Prior to their departure, the Decepticons had advanced to within striking distance of Iacon. True, they were still reeling from the fallout of Tyger Pax, same as the Autobots, but the 'Cons had more resources at their disposal, and were far more unified in their ire against Optimus for essentially dooming the Cybertronian race to extinction.

But now, so many stellar cycles later, had the war finally reached his home? If it had, what had become of the "Jewel of the North?" Had Optimus lead the Autobots to victory, or was everything that he had ever known…gone?

Was Io dead? Was Ratchet dead? Was _everyone_ dead?

The mech's spark began to pulse more rapidly.

"Woah, Grunt; calm it down. You're going to hurt yourself," the mystery voice offered, sounding muffled this time, as if the noise had traversed a long hallway before reaching his audio receptors.

He tried; he really did. But with his higher functions still groggy from his long sleep, normally repressed primal code was now claiming his processor, circuit by circuit, like some wasting illness. The code's commands were simple: Fight. Flee. Survive.

Thousands of neural pathways flared to life in an instant; his body surged forward.

Wham!

He hit something. Hard. Pain shot through the center of his face-plate and he stumbled backwards, stunned.

"Scrap!"

Something warm trickled down his chin.

He shook his head and tried to assess the situation. His vision had improved slightly, though not nearly enough to matter and his processor now had to juggle the sudden, mystery pain along with a host of survival code. He looked up and thought he saw something; a shade within a shade. He squinted, trying to focus. A blob. Living. Cybertronian, assumedly, about as tall as he was, but aside from that, a blob. And a collection of noises that seemed to emanate from one part of the blob. Was it typing? A computer console?

The blob was solid, if the fantastic clicks and scrabbles birthed through its mid-section interaction had anything to say about it. But was the blob friendly? His processor couldn't decide whether to patiently wait or flee.

A sudden hiss startled him and his body lunged forward, again. This time, there was no impact, just an odd feeling of being supported, motionless, twenty-degrees shy of vertical.

"You ok, Grunt?"

Crossarm cocked his head. That word. He'd been called that before…but where?

"And here I thought jets were a bit more resilient than the rest of us…"

 _That mocking tone…that stupid nickname…_

 _Wait!_

A memory drifted into focus, not of a place…but an individual; a femme. Tall, exotic…and lacking much of the armor that one might ascribe to a particular class of alt-mode, the image was that of his commanding officer and captain of the Obsidian Sky, Spec.

A long finger thunked his helm, derailing his thoughts. With effort, he was able to focus on her glowing, blue visor.

Blue! He could see color! His favorite color, no less. He felt giddy and his voice-box attempted a laugh…which was only marginally successful, sounding more like a dying petro-fox than an expression of joy.

"You fry your processor, Grunt?"

The happy feeling faded at her tone. "What…?"

"You've been staring. And now you're giggling."

Crossarm quashed another round of merriment and shuttered his optics. When he refocused on her, he was delighted to discover that his vision had improved quite a bit. Sure enough, Spec was staring at him down the length of her arm, and in fact was supporting a great deal of his weight.

Eventually, the femme shook her head and gave his medial plate a light shove to set him upright. Instinctively his hand sought out the nearby bulkhead for balance while his legs remembered how to support him.

Pause. Calm down. Get your bearings. He was here now, wherever here was, but alive. He looked about, but his vision faltered as if he was moving so fast that he was seeing individual moments of time. He closed his optics once more and took a moment to compose himself.

When allowed himself to see again, he was fully awake and aware, if remarkably lethargic. And sore! Especially his face-plate. Why in Primus' name was it so sore?

Suddenly a rag appeared before him. "You're leaking."

The young mech looked at the rag, then at Spec, then back to the rag. No doubt she was telling the truth, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what he could have done that would have resulted in an injury.

Spec's dorsal sensors rattled. "Ungh…here…" Suddenly the rag was against his face-plate, dead center, just above his mouth. "Hey!" He yelped, and jerked his head away. Commanding Officer or not, no one touched his face without permission. No one.

He flared his shoulder-caps and glared at her, wings low. She stared back, puzzled.

"You know…it's basic politeness to _ask_ before touching someone's face." He said in low tones.

"Oh!" A pause. "I didn't realize…"

"Wait…Seriously?"

Her sensors rattled, again. "You're still leaking…" She said after a moment, this time offering the rag at arm's length.

As the tone of her voice was decidedly apologetic, Crossarm's face gentled and he thanked her, taking the item and dabbing gingerly at his face-plate. Through the fabric, he could feel a vertical crack in the mesh exactly where Triage had split his face-plate open all of those years ago. Thankfully, it was small, not a full bifurcation like it had been. Still, he would be spending a fair amount of time in Adit's repair bay once they were settled. Face-plate injuries as a rule tended not to heal well on their own.

"Are you good to walk?" Spec said snapping him from his thoughts. Her dismissive tone suggested that she had already distanced herself from the situation to focus on other things. What a berth-side manner!

Stifling a chuckle, Crossarm pulled the rag away and reexamined it. Only a few new stains were present, suggesting that the wound had started self-repairing. "Yeah," he said, distracted and slightly queasy. He hated the sight of energon, especially his own. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He focused on talking. It was better than focusing on the injury or the rag.

"Good." She said as she started for the distant exit. "Surveyor has brought us into orbit around MG2505 and should be just about finished with his preliminary surface assessment. After the briefing, we'll attempt to land. I'd like to get a temporary camp set up before nightfall."

Crossarm nodded his acknowledgement and fell into step beside her.

Blue strip lights guided their trods, though they were hardly bright enough to put the jet at ease. He hated confined spaces, and despite the hall being wide enough for both he and Spec to walk side-by-side, the encroaching darkness and low ceiling made it seem as if were walking through a giant hydraulic press.

Crossarm focused on the nearest stasis pod to distract himself, then immediately wished he hadn't. Dragline, the team's lead geologist, stared back at him with dark eyes, like miniature black holes. His usual red and gray color scheme had faded to a sickly gray and If not for the brain-wave activity visible on the pod's console, the old mech could have easily been mistaken for a corpse.

He suppressed a shudder. Dead bodies creeped him out more than spilt energon.

Attempting to mitigate this burgeoning unease, he studied Spec out of the corner of his optic. Her physiology was alluring despite her drab color scheme—white and grey, mostly, with red accents—and the fact that she turned into a mass spectrometer. Only those places that housed her scientific components—or organs like the spark chamber and T-cog—were afforded armor, namely her bracers, trods, pelvic assembly, and torso, and this only the minimum required for EMR shielding. The rest was exposed protoform and sensors.

As he had spent most of his time in the military, this was an unusual arrangement.

Perhaps the most interesting component of her anatomy was a specialized array of sensors, sword-like projections that hung from shoulder-mounted revolute joints. These could be raised or lowered at will, and—much like his own wings—could be used to gauge mood. Which was good because her face, with its visor and permanent mouth-plate, was only slightly more expressive than a sheet of aluminum.

And not that she actually had "moods." She had one setting: ON. Always on task, always on target, always on your case…that was Spec. This mission—her mission—was the only thing that mattered.

Actually…she reminded him a lot of himself, his old self, minus the misogyny and desirable alt-mode.

Maybe that's why they couldn't seem to get along…

"What's wrong?" Spec asked suddenly, causing him to jump.

The mech fluffed his armor and silently cursed himself for being startled. "The sooner we get into the main hall, the better." He conceded, finally, focusing straight ahead. It kept him from noticing whether she was judging him. His faculties may now be back online, but so too were his faults.

Ahead of him, no more than two mechanometers, a rectangle of cheery blue light marked the door to the main hall, an exquisite oval of gleaming steel six toranometers in length. The windows had been rendered opaque, an energy saving measure until they made planetfall. And while he would have preferred to see space with all of its pretty stars and galaxies, he understood the need to conserve resources on their lengthy voyage. Still, the size of the room was a comfort to him.

"You should probably know something about Surveyor before we speak to him…" Spec said as they transitioned from the gloom of the stasis wing to relative brilliance of the main hall.

"Yeah…?" Crossarm said, distracted. Sure, the light was murder on his optics, but he was just happy to be out of the stasis wing. He stretched out his arms and rolled his shoulder-caps, reveling in the blissful comfort that had all but replaced the dread in his spark. "What about him?

"He's…" She seemed to choose her next word carefully. " _-Interesting_."

"'Interesting' as in 'I've got a real knack for collecting inappropriate images of historical figures' or 'interesting' as in 'certifiable?'"

Spec considered him fully for a bit then laughed. Crossarm jumped at the sound, having thoroughly convinced himself on Cybertron that such emotion was beyond her capabilities. Even her voice-box seemed unsure, as if it couldn't remember the signal pathways to properly emote amusement. "A little bit of both,"

"Ok…?"

"He has a rather unique relationship with his drones." Was her straight-forward comment.

Crossarm cocked a brow-ridge. "You mean those non-sentient things that were always following him around on the dock?"

She nodded. "I won't go into the details, but suffice to say his last job sent him to the Under Levels, sometimes for _vorns_ at a time. Alone." She sighed. "He talks to the drones. Names them." A pause; her visor glowed a brighter shade of blue. "…Canoodles them."

"Interesting..." He mused. Xenophilia was rare, sure enough...but not unheard of, especially in _so'vas_ where they were used as cheaper alternative to _thosts_. Prisons used them as well, as a reward or when the convict was too dangerous to be around other 'Bots. Had he served his full term, he would have been offered one after completing his tertiary education courses. It was either that or a berth…and he couldn't be certain that he would have chosen the later.

"You don't seem surprised." She marveled, pivoting on her trods so that she could better gauge his expression.

The mech smirked and side-stepped her. "Everyone has their vices…" He didn't elaborate; he didn't have to. He may not support certain life choices, but given his own, unique, history he sure as spark wasn't in a position to call someone out about them.

Her pace slackened and she quickly disappeared from the mech's peripheral vision.

Though he couldn't see her it was all too easy to imagine her standing there, head cocked, studying him as intently as she would one of her rock specimens.

His right wing twitched—one of his little habits whenever he felt put upon—but his overall composure was unperturbed. He couldn't deny a lingering feeling of indignation, but he shoved it aside, suppressing it with a confident head shake and cool optics, just like he'd trained himself to do after more than a decade in the Decagon. There, objectification, harassment, and assault were standard fare and one learned very quickly to tune it all out.

The sudden reappearance of Spec caused him to refocus on his surroundings, and he was pleased to discover that the bridge was just ahead, hidden behind an imposing silver door.

At their approach, the door split diagonally and opened with a gentle swoosh and hiss of equalizing air pressure. Beyond was a wide, windowless room furnished only by a padded chair, and a standard computer console. The absence of equipment was due to the modular nature of their ship. The bridge, the storage rooms, and even part of the stasis wing would all be converted into living quarters and lab space once they chose a permanent landing site, so it made little sense to outfit the space beyond the minimum required for functionality.

Perched on the back of the chair were two non-sentient machines. In design, they resembled repair drones, right down to the stubby arms and sensor panels—but it was clear that they both had been heavily modified for their new role on MG2505, satellite communication. A third was situated near the base of the chair, arms folded and panels low. It appeared to be sleeping.

The two perching bots turned their bodies to look at Crossarm and Spec as they approached. The one on the left leapt into the air and made angry chittering sounds from its new roost on the ceiling—where those sounds originated from, Crossarm couldn't say; no mouth or voice modulator was visible. The other held its ground and scrutinized them through its primary optic, a large, round, recessed orb in its snout. Once satisfied, it chirped and tapped the shoulder-cap of chair's occupant, a tall, blue mech, the team's communication specialist and groundbridge expert, Surveyor.

"Ah, Spec…" He called out, happily as he finished perusing a dataset. "I was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong." The chair swiveled and Surveyor flashed them both with a bright, genuine smile.

It was all too easy to lump him in with the other sci-casters he'd met over the years, especially with his lanky frame, elaborate plating, and severe face. Actually, he looked a lot like Spec in this regard, and it wasn't too much of a stretch to believe that he turned into a piece of scientific equipment as well…or, perhaps, a satellite—he did have two, odd panel-looking things dangling from his back-plate. Regardless, all of the pomp-and-circumstance was just surface wax; he was an easy-going soul, quick to laughter and brimming with an almost sparkling enthusiasm as he carried out his technical duties.

At least that was Crossarm's original impression of the 'Bot.

The drone clinging to the ceiling continued to chatter. "Now, now, Xarsis, no need to be rude." The drone quieted some, though it still glared at Crossarm, red optic glowing fiercely. "Oh…" Surveyor rose to his trods, paused for a moment, then leaned back, flaring his armor and raising his arms in a mighty stretch. "Sorry…" Another stretch. "I don't think I've moved from that chair since we arrived." He recovered quickly, and vectored towards Crossarm with an outstretched hand. "Sergeant." He clasped Crossarm's uncertain hand and shook it firmly. "We didn't get much time to talk back on Cybertron. Good to finally meet you."

Crossarm's brow-ridge crept up along his helm. Wow. News really _didn't_ travel fast.

Even Spec seemed surprised, if her stiffening posture had anything to say about it, but the mission was more important, and she addressed her second in command with a stern, authoritative tone. "So, what have you to report?"

"Ah, straight to business, then." Surveyor remarked with a chuckle. He waived them over to the console. "Quite the fascinating planet. Small, by our standards, but very, very unique."

Humming to himself, he tapped away at the computer interface, pulling up graphs and data sets.

Crossarm scanned the data and scrunched his upper lip. Most of it was unintelligible, even the chemistry stuff. If only he had been able to finish his classes…

"As you can see here, the atmosphere is a bit denser, and the gravity significantly lower than what we're used to. Rotational and orbital periods are very similar…in a way that should cause the universe to implode from the sheer improbability of that convergence." He smiled at his own wit. "The presence of dihydrogen monoxide, in all three states, will make long-term habitation tricky, but I think we'll manage. And that's to say nothing of all the organic…"

"Water? There's water here?" Crossarm blurted out before he could think better of it. Water was one of the best solvents that he'd ever worked with, second only to energon, but it was virtually non-existent on Cybertron and, hence, very, very expensive.

Spec's visor darkened disapprovingly. Surveyor seemed not to notice, or at least the shift in conversation to something beyond the basics was too good an opportunity to pass up. "Indeed!" He said with growing enthusiasm. "Oceans of it. It's quite the sight."

Crossarm cocked his head. Spec's sensors rattled.

"You haven't…" He reconsidered his statement with a chuckle. "Of course you haven't seen it…we've had the windows closed." He turned to the console and typed for a few moments. "That ought to do it." He looked up at the opaque bulkhead with expectant optics.

Spec and Crossarm did the same.

For a while nothing happened. Then, the bulkhead texture changed, going from matte to granular in the blink of an optic. The molecules then began to saltate, moving up and down, wavelike, radiating from multiple foci on each wall. As fronts advanced, transparency followed until every wall had become as clear as fine crystal.

Even though Crossarm knew that the walls were still there, he suddenly felt as though he had been transported to the external hull, surrounded on all sides by space. Raw space. Infinite. Basic physics told him that. Yet, despite this understanding, the huge disk of MG2505, bright, blue and imposing, seemed so much larger. He had never seen a planet from space before, having been put into stasis several solar cycles before their departure. It was a truly awesome sight and his spark swelled so that he wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. It was blue. So much blue. Like an energon concretion, fresh out of the ground and streaked with white flazon.

Or both.

If this were smaller than Cybertron, he could only imagine what his homeworld might look like. Then again, he wasn't sure if he would want to see what stellar cycles of war had done to it…

"The blue is water." Surveyor explained, and Crossarm had to shake himself from an almost mystified stupor just to follow along. "It's deep enough in some places that the hydrostatic pressure can crush a Cybertronian like a tin can. The clouds are water too, tiny droplets suspended by atmospheric convection cells." He pointed toward the south pole. "See that continent down there, it is covered with frozen water thousands of toranometers thick."

"And the organic stuff?'" Crossarm asked, curiosity blooming. "Are we talking hydrocarbons or…'

Surveyor laughed. "Nope. Well, yes…" another chuckle. "But not in the way that you're thinking." He pointed at one of the continents. This one was mostly green except for the western part which was brown and grey. "The surface is literally teeming with organic lifeforms: bacteria, plants, animals…billions and billions of species. Cybertron is a barren wasteland by contrast."

Crossarm was hanging on every word. Already his processor had begun to paint hypothetical landscapes: Dense alien jungles, frozen plains, rocky mountains…all overrun by ferocious beasts, like the predacons of primordial Cybertron. It was almost too much to take in.

Surveyor seemed to sense this unspoken wonderment and opened his mouth to add to the data overload, but Spec clapped her hands loudly. "Mechs, can we please focus on mission specs? We'll have plenty of time—vorns—to investigate the particulars of this… _unique_ world." A twinge of disgust edged into her voice as she said the word "unique," as if the thought of living among organics offended her.

"Sorry," Crossarm offered with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," Surveyor said at the same time, also sounding embarrassed.

Spec nodded as if satisfied. "Have we detected any Decepticon activity?"

"None. Not so much as a blip." Surveyor shrugged. "I'd be very surprised if they managed to make it out this far."

Spec seemed to think this over for a moment. "Have you found a suitable landing site."

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded proudly. "It's a bit rugged, but it has everything that the geologists need to get started: Lots of rock variety, high geothermal gradient, inferred seismic activity based on surface structures. Heck, there's even an active volcano nearby."

Crossarm cocked his head. "A volcano? Aren't those dangerous"

Surveyor laughed. "Not the soft-rock ones." He clapped Crossarm on the shoulder-cap. "You should probably avoid flying through the ash, though."

Crossarm wanted to ask why, but Spec cut him off with a quick summary of Surveyor's observations. "Aside from the obvious strangeness of the planet – water _everywhere_ – it seems quiet. We should have no problem completing our mission… once we get our trods out there to experience it."

Spec considered the strange, blue planet with the optics of a trained scientist.

Crossarm followed her stare. Everything was new, well… most everything, and the prospect of science for the sake of science in addition to their mission held an immediate allure. However, they were here for a purpose and that took precedence over all other considerations. They were going to turn MG2505 into a solid energon producing factory for the war effort.

He could almost imagine the immense pressure Spec was feeling, especially because she was the one that had to coordinate their efforts. It would take them stellar cycles…vorns, even, to see their task to fruition. If she didn't have a dedicated, ordered mindset, it would have been overwhelming. But she was nothing if not determined.

This was evident as she wasn't even allowing herself to absorb the majesty of this new place.

Looking at Surveyor and then at Crossarm, she regarded the planet with a severe optic.

"Let's get started." she said.


	3. Chapter 3: Planetfall

Crossarm waited with nervous anticipation in the cargo bay of The Obsidian Sky, his emotions conflicted, tugging at him from every conceivable direction.

First, he was in the cargo bay, among crates that seemed to press in on him from all sides; it was hard to even move without grazing his winglets on _something_. With such close quarters, it was difficult to focus on much else. Even telling himself that this was just the sign of a well-stocked ship did little decrease the oppressive feel. Which was strange, because he should _only_ be happy and he knew it. Today—this glorious, glorious day—his luck had made a 180 degree turn for the better.

He had been chosen to make planetfall on MG2505!

It was a tremendous honor… bestowed upon him because he was the only member of the crew to have military grade weapons built into his body.

At least that's what he tried to convince himself of.

In reality, he was chosen because he was the only expendable member of Spec's team. Prowl wanted military representation on the mission to MG2505, but with all of the risks involved, he didn't want to send anyone that actually mattered. And this wasn't some revelation that Crossarm had come to on his own. No, Prowl had made it very clear, in person—and with loads of expletives—that he wouldn't be missed. Better to send along some nobody felon than risk losing someone like Ironhide or Ultra Magnus. At least _they_ were contributing to the war effort.

The whole interaction had left him humiliated, and humbled.

But now that he was here, ready to put trod to an alien world—an _organic_ world, of all places—it was hard not to feel excited. He smiled. His spark was pulsing wildly, but he felt alive, like he had been re-forged, a new protoform climbing from the well to gape in awe at the sun and the stars. And just like those first few moments of awareness, his emotions were a tumult, bouncing and ricocheting off of one another as slag pellets in a tumbler. He paused and sighed, then smiled again.

Thankfully, Surveyor's sudden announcement forced him to focus. "Now entering atmo. Things might get bumpy. Sergeant?" Crossarm looked up, instinctively, despite knowing that Surveyor was nowhere nearby. "You might want to hang on to something."

Crossarm reached for the wall and slipped his fingers into one of the airlock's handholds. He also adjusted his legs so that his mass was more widely distributed.

And it was a good thing, too. Without warning, the ship rocked violently port-side. Had he not been secured, he would have been thrown clear across the cargo bay, likely into something both annoying and painful, but he managed to remain standing, nervously. And that was just the beginning. The rest of their descent saw him, and everything else in the vicinity, shimmy and juke in ways that he a.) had never conceived possible, and b.) found incredibly repellant. So rough was the ride, he could literally feel the energon sloshing around in his tank. Oh, Primus what an awful sensation….

Luckily, just as he began to feel like he might lose his fight with inertia, the shaking began to subside.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Surveyor laughed. "Yes. Yes, it was fun, _so'o c'thza_. You did so well."

Happy, chittering sounds joined the ambient rumble.

"Oh, for Primus' sake, Surveyor." Spec growled, sounding miserable.

"How about you, Sergeant?" The communication's officer called out, ignoring her tone. "Are you well?"

"I'm alive, if that's what you mean." Crossarm said, trying his best to sound confident. Despite everything having returned to normal, he still felt as if he were vibrating, especially the softer alloys of his protoform. "Nasty business, that." He added, mostly to himself. However, Spec muttered something that sounded like a weak agreement, so he must have said it aloud. The lack of a rebuke or a cutting remark suggested she had not enjoyed the decent and he couldn't help but smile at their shared misery.

"Landing gear down. Ambient air temperature is a balmy 13.5 standard degrees with a relative humidity of 46.5 percent. Winds out of the south at 15 TPGs _._ "

The actual touchdown was hardly noticeable, the landing struts absorbing most of the ship's momentum.

The airlock hissed as the shipboard pressure equalized to the atmospheric pressure outside, and Crossarm steeled himself.

He was nervous, but the prospect of seeing the surface of an alien world with his own optics – and being the first to do so – kept the uneasiness at bay. Even the knowledge that he could potentially encounter an organism larger than himself-surface scans indicated the presence of such things—didn't put a damper on his mood in the slightest. _Expendable, huh?_ He couldn't help but think as he prepared himself. At least I get to do _this_!

The inner airlock door opened with a metallic swoosh and his world exploded in blinding light.

Outside air rushed into the cabin and whistled through his plating. There was a resistance that was noticeable, and the water vapor seemed to ignore his armor, clinging to his protoform like bath oil. There was also a strange smell to the air, sweet and sickly, with overtones of decay and moistened soil. He couldn't decide if it was pleasant or awful. But it was new, so he reserved judgment for later.

Then his optics adjusted and he stared at the ground at the bottom of the ramp, dumbfounded. He blinked and shook his head, then blinked again to make sure his optics weren't malfunctioning.

The ground was green.

Green?

He shuttered his optics, this time, cutting energon to his _t'vre_ to rule out any possibility of errant code. Once the organs reinitialized, he was happy to discover that the green really was part of the landscape. Sure, he'd seen the color before, but always as part of industry or artificial lighting and _never_ in the natural world. Before he knew it, he was jogging down the ramp to get a better look, lips stretched into a broad, yet remarkably dopy, smile. He was only dimly aware of the lower gravity, about forty percent that of his home world. It gave a spring to his step that he couldn't quite chalk-up to his growing excitement—but was easily compensated for and ignored.

As he approached the base of the ramp, detail replaced assumptions. The green wasn't a solid mass but, instead, comprised of billions of tiny, blade-like stalks each about the length of his index finger. The stalks were soft and flexible, able to rebound after being compressed under his trod. Interspersed here and there were brightly colored growths displaying impeccable symmetry; Cybertronian artists would have been hard-pressed to do better. He legitimately felt bad every time he had to step on a cluster of them.

He encountered more of the same everywhere he went and it was delightfully comfortable under-trod. The springiness was as much a part of the organic matter as it was the darker material beneath. Bending down, he poked at the ground proper, but only succeeded in dislodging some of the blades as well as uncovering a deformable, granular brown mass beneath. Examining his fingers, the brown matter crumbled into bits and fell to the ground though a small residue continued to cling on.

Intrigued—but also, slightly, disgusted—he wiped his fingers against a patch of dry sediment. Then he observed his hole that he had made. The blades were only green where exposed to sunlight. Beneath the ground, they were brown and thin, tiny veins ending in a myriad of dendrites.

 _Weird._ He couldn't help but think to himself.

He lifted his optics to take in the rest of his surroundings.

True to Surveyor's word, the topography was rugged, with bare, rocky knobs to the south and east. In the west, the mountains were more isolated, forming individual peaks that were so thickly covered with ice that they weren't easily identified as such. But it was their own valley that seemed the most alien, with its vertical walls of smooth, unbroken rock, flat floor, and organic life. To the north, a dusty apron of gray rock formed the foundation of a large, cone-shaped mountain, the active volcano that Surveyor alluded to during their briefing. And it was definitely active, belching out great, black clouds from a depression near the summit.

The imagery was strangely familiar, like burning energon or stack exhaust, except that there wasn't an underground factory generating the stuff…just soft-rock processes that operated on Cybertronian timescales. He smiled and watched with interest as a new cloud rocketed skyward with impressive velocity. Several astroseconds later, a sharp "bang" reached his audio receptors. The cloud was energetic enough to climb twice the height of the volcano before collapsing as a gray turbidity current to the east. He studied it for a few more cycles. Compared to vids of Cybertronian volcanoes that he'd seen, it was…cute; adorable, even. Which made Surveyor's statement about not flying into the clouds that much more puzzling.

*Crossarm? Report* Spec called out over his private frequency, snapping the sparkling from his thoughts.

*Looks good.* Was his simple reply. Too simple. Spec wouldn't stand for it. He chuckled. *In all seriousness, the site seems secure."

*Are you certain? Our scans indicated several, large organic creatures approximately 3.4 toranometers northeast of your current position…*

This gave the young mech pause, and he quickly reconsidered the landscape, weapons swooshing to the ready. The only objects of note were a few large, branching outgrowths near the valley wall. These were mostly brown and dendritic with green, brushy tips. Some grew to only half his height before branching out laterally, while others seemed to prefer elevation to width. Individuals in this latter group were anywhere between six and ten times his height and were so wide at the base that his hands wouldn't have touched had he wrapped them around.

They were about the right distance away and in the proper direction. He trained his weapons and watched the outgrowths intently. Their thin ,arm-like extensions bent and swayed in the breeze, but the rest of their massive bodies seemed set in the substrate.

He puzzled over this for a moment. The Obsidian Sky's scanners were top-notch; surely, they wouldn't provide false data…unless they had somehow been damaged in transit.

*Sensors are running at 100% efficiency. No corrupt software or damaged hardware detected. * Surveyor offered, as if he could read Crossarm's mind. *Very curious…*

*Have you compensated for atmospheric interference?* Spec snapped. *Water vapor is an absolute nightmare to penetrate…*

*It was first on my list,* Surveyor interrupted with an almost uncharacteristic snootiness. *I am a remote sensing specialist, you know…* He laughed.

*Crossarm?* She barked, ignoring her subordinate's attempt at humor.

*They're not-moving. *

*We _know_ that, but what do you see?*

He described the objects as best as he could, and Surveyor cut him off, excitedly. "Oh! I know what those are! They're called "plants!" Well, more specifically, "trees."*

*Are they dangerous?* Crossarm wondered, considering these so-called "trees" suspiciously, as if they might suddenly spring to life and descend upon him should his attentions wane.

*Possibly!* The scientist replied with enthusiasm, bordering on mania. *Almost all of what we know of plant life is anecdotal, diaries and logs from the various space-faring civilizations that we've made contact with over the eons. Most of the time, trees—and other plants—are passive photosynthesizers.*

*I sense a "however,"* Spec commented, dryly.

Surveyor chuckled. *However…* He paused for effect; Spec groaned. Crossarm stifled a laugh. "We do have records of ornery plant-life. One system, Valla 12, had three garden worlds with aggressive, plant-based food webs. Convergent evolution at its finest.* He added in his typical joking tone.

Spec returned to the conversation with an air of annoyance. *So, you're suggesting that these things could still be dangerous?*

*I can't rule out the possibility of malevolence. So…yes?*

*And there's nothing more that can be done to analyze them? Spec asked Surveyor, restarting the previous line of questioning, effectively cutting Crossarm out of the conversation. "What about adjusting spectral resolution on the thematic mappers? Are we certain that all ten bands are…"

Spec droned on and on about "bands" and "emission spectra" and "albedo features" and other such nonsense that Crossarm didn't understand, but he had long since tuned her out to devote his full attention to the trees that loomed nearby.

Just as before, the thick, lofty extensions swayed in the wind, seemingly indifferent to him.

He waved his arms.

No response.

He jumped and waved his arms.

The trees didn't seem to care.

He considered yelling, but he quickly put the thought out of his processor. He remembered a story from the Council archives about the unfortunate—nay stupid—Kaonian adventurer, Unit Cell. Voltari were more common back then, massive worm-like animaloids known for their communal burrows and foraging packs that could number in the tens of thousands. Peaceful ferrotrophs by nature, they rarely attacked travelers. Unit Cell chanced upon a smaller pack that had been separated from the main herd by a dust storm, and were resting in power-down mode to conserve energy. For some reason, he decided that it would be fun to throw a flashbang at one of them. The resultant stampede destroyed a nearby archeological settlement along with thousands of pre-Cataclysm artifacts that were being stored on-site.

Crossarm's reputation was already in shambles after the Orisis Incident. If he somehow incited the trees to panic, their combined 40 million ketros of mass would make short work of the Obsidian Sky…and everything on it. The mission would fail, they all would starve to death, and the Autobots would lose the war.

It was a simple equation: that was _not_ how he wanted to be remembered.

Unsure of how to proceed, he decided to check in on Spec and Surveyor. They were discussing modifications that could be made to one of the autonomous ground vehicles that they were planning to send into the crater of the volcano. They seemed to have forgotten about him entirely.

The jet chuckled to himself, stowed his weapons, and started towards the groove.

 _Maybe if I just get closer._

He was careful to tread softly, and the carpet of fine plant matter helped to muffle the noise generated by his passage. That is, it did until he lost his balance—the tip of his trod caught a rock that he saw an astrosecond before he tripped over it—and he stumbled into a small, brushy tree that "snapped" loudly, unable to support his weight.

Crossarm froze and eyed the now looming groove with wide, terrified optics. _Bad idea._

He waited several cycles, fear keeping his body as still as a statue.

Still the trees didn't respond.

His head cocked and he brought himself upright. _Strange. They don't seem aware of their surroundings at all._ He marveled. Between the sound of the Obsidian Sky's engines and his blunderings, every living creature in the valley should be aware of their presence. Aware enough to get angry. Smart enough to run. And certainly not asleep.

He started forward with more confidence and, in short order, he found himself standing at the base of the largest of the trees, optics screwed upward towards the canopy. For an organic construct, it truly was a wonder. It was a living thing for all of its obliviousness, and even he had to appreciate the creature's complexity, billions of non-mechanical systems working in unison to feed its immense bulk.

Smiling, he reached out his hand and touched it.

Some small part of his processor continued to pester him with thoughts of _you're just going to piss it off_ , but his natural, sparkling curiosity quickly shunted all of that aside, and soon he was patting the thing all over.

The mesh was unlike anything he had ever touched, fibrous, non-metallic—obviously—but durable, and with an almost elastic give when prodded, like protoform alloy. Well, not so much like that as it was cold to the touch. Surprisingly, it retained its initial temperature for a long while, heating up slowly beneath his palm. It was just as sluggish in relinquishing that heat back to the environment when his hand was removed.

*Crossarm?* Spec's voice shattered his thoughts like a mortar round, causing him to jump away from the tree, weapons drawn.

*Do you have to yell every time you say my name?!* He snapped, a bit of his old attitude returning. He hated, hated, HATED being startled like that. And it wasn't like he was on an alien planet, dealing with creatures and environments that were new and unfamiliar, thus forcing him to be more cognizant of sudden, loud sounds.

*Watch your tone, Grunt.* Her reply was instantaneous, as if she had been anticipating his response. Then, she must have noticed his change of position on the monitor. *What in Primus' name are you doing?! You're right up on them!*

*Experimenting.* He said with a smirk.

His expression must have translated through the 'com because in an instant Spec's comments had gone from surprised to lecturing… while annoyed. *Oh no you don't! We have no idea the threat they could pose to us.*

*So far, I haven't seen any threatening behaviors.* He explained. Spec hissed static at him from her side of the connection. She was losing her patience. *Aside from the effects of the wind, they haven't really moved at all.*

*It could be hunting behavior, lying motionless until prey is in range…* Surveyor offered. *Remember those plant-based food webs I mentioned earlier? That's how the trees caught their food.* He paused. *I shudder to think of all of those Andalite colonists that had to learn that the hard way…*

Crossarm considered this for a moment, but shook his head. *I don't think so…* He was looking down at some unsightly knobs fluting out from the mesh near the tree's base. Beneath these, the mesh plunged groundward, disappearing beneath a layer of dry, organic needles. With a swipe of his trod, he shoved aside the needle covering and about a 100 milivets of the brown granules that seemed to act as a growing medium for all of the plant life in the area. The tree's base extended underground the entire depth that he'd exposed, and seemed to go deeper. He relayed these observations to the others and concluded with. *I think they're immobile. * He stowed his weapons and completed a full walk around of the tree's base, kicking aside needles and dirt and uncovering more of the plunging mesh.

*Oh, and because Sergeant Not-A-Scientist thinks it's ok…* Spec chided, sarcastically.

Despite being on the receiving end of her snark, Crossarm couldn't help but chuckle. Spec might be a huge science nerd, and the world's greatest hard-aft, but even he had to acknowledge that she could be witty when she wanted to be. And she must have been watching him on sensors, realizing that there had been no change in the tree's behavior or emissions despite his proximity.

That didn't mean she approved of his investigation techniques. *Still, you should back away from it until we learn more.*

 _Hear that_ , he thought. _"Should." Said like it rankled._ He had taken control of the situation—admittedly, in his typical, single-minded way—she didn't like it, and now she was trying to justify her authority.

A mischievous smirk played across his lips as he added nonchalantly, *Oh, yeah…I should probably mention that I touched it, too.*

There was a long pause. *C-care to repeat that?'*

*I touched it.*

*You what?!* Spec shouted, but this time he was prepared for it.

He hadn't intended to tell her that, but then again, _he_ was the one mucking about on an alien world sticking his neck out to investigate multi-million ketro "trees" and she was watching a monitor from the safety of the ship.

Oh, he knew, full-well, that he was in trouble. But if his actions made her consider, even for an astrosecond, that she, herself, was at least partially responsible for his foolhardiness, then punishment, no matter how severe, was worth it.

*In fact,* he reached out his hand again, eager to drive the point home. *I'm touching one of them right now.*

Another pause. His smirk deepened. Her voice was anger, mixed with trepidation and indignation. *You're…touching it? Seriously?*

*That's right." He rapped on the tree's body with the back of his hand. *And I just gave it a good knock. It doesn't care.*

Silence. Even Surveyor seemed uncharacteristically quiet.

A smirk turned his lips, though it was replaced by a grimace as the femme finally regained use of her voice-box and gave him a verbal lashing that would have put a drill-sergeant to shame.

And all the while, the trees stood by in mute silence.


End file.
